


Beautiful things

by anyasromanov



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Artists, But he only draws the two things he loves, F/M, Paris (City), bet you couldn’t guess what he draws, dima draws and he's really good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 03:25:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17593715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anyasromanov/pseuds/anyasromanov
Summary: Dmitry learnt to draw while living on the streets. He only ever draws what he finds beautiful and loves.





	Beautiful things

Dmitry was an artist. 

Or so some would say. 

He drew things of which inspired him. What made him happy. Which wasn’t much, it’s why he didn’t draw as often as he used to. 

He’d learnt to draw while sitting around at night u set bridges or in alleyways. 

The views of Petersburg were some of the most perfect things he had ever seen, images he wanted to keep with him. 

He learned to capture their beauty, shading everything in the correct place. 

One day though, he just stopped. 

Lost interest, didn’t see the point in it anymore. His life was going nowhere so what was the point. 

Then Anya showed up and something clicked, but what it was there was no telling. 

He’d look out the window of his room in the Yusupov Palace and would draw the skyline of Petersburg, slipping his sketchbook under his pillow once he had finished, wanting to keep it a secret, not wanting to share his talent. 

At the current moment in time, Dmitry was sat in his hotel room in Paris. 

The one he was sharing with her. 

He loved her, he knew he loved her. He just couldn’t love her. 

She currently sat on the sofa on the far side of the hotel room, reading a book in French. 

Of course, it was in French. 

As much as he wanted to resist, the light shining on her was too perfect for him not to capture. How she was sitting in her elegance. The way her hair fell down her back as it curled slightly, the small braid over the top of her head. She looked perfect. 

But she looked perfect every time he drew her. 

That’s how he knew he loved her. He only drew the things he loved. 

He had started to sketch, drawing her outline, the furniture surrounding her, only a basic line drawing at first before he would add the details. Her skirt, the blouse, each individual strand of her hair. 

She caught him off guard when she asked him what he was doing. There was no way to lie to her now. 

“Drawing.”

“Can I see?”

“No, they’re er- personal.”

“Will you show me one day?”

“Maybe,” there was an emptiness in his voice. He’d never be able to show her because tomorrow they were going to the ballet. She would see her Nana and he would never see her again. 

Princesses don’t marry conmen. 

Her screams woke him that night. 

He was sleeping on the sofa, not wanting to be too close to her, but she was now asking him to stay by her side and he couldn’t refuse. 

They spoke for a small moment, about if Dmitry really believed if she was the Grand Duchess. He told her she was strong and brave and beautiful and the encounter became awkward almost immediately. She took that away when she mocked him for finally paying her a compliment. 

She asked him again. He sat back and looked at her dead in the eye, “I want to believe you’re the girl I saw once many years ago.”

“I don’t understand.”

He told her. Of that day in June. That hot day in June, the sun in the sky, radiating its heat through the city of St. Petersburg. About the girl in the parade. Only eight, but yet still so proud, so serene, so perfect. Even though he was ten he admired this girl. Wanted to marry this girl. She giggled slightly. He told her how he sneaked past the guards, called out her name as the crowds cheered, how he stared. Then the sun caught his eye, he couldn’t see, and once he adjusted his view she was gone. 

He let out a small sigh after recalling the tale. 

“If I were still ten, in that crowd of thousands, I’d find her again.”

“You’re making me feel I was there too.”

“Maybe you were, make it part of your story.”

She recalled the events of the day. Almost mimicking the words he had previously said, altering them slightly. Saying how it was hot, no clouds in the sky. She said he was thin, but not too clean, which although was true he pretended to be slightly annoyed at her which made her giggle. She mentioned how she saw him dodge past the guards, calling out her name, how she tried so hard not to smile but she couldn’t help it and then how he bowed.

But he didn’t tell her that. 

“How did you know that. I never told you.”

“I- I remember.”

The silence grew between them and then in a second Anya ran from where she had moved to as she retold her story to directly in front of Dmitry. Their hands connected, her arms moved to his biceps, his to cup her face. 

He wanted to kiss her. 

He leaned to kiss her. 

He pulled away and bowed. 

She still wouldn’t let him sleep on the sofa. 

The ballet was a success. As soon as Anya had gone to meet her Nana Dmitry headed back to the hotel. 

There was no reason for him to be in Paris any longer. He had served his purpose. 

Vlad tried to convince him to stay, but he didn’t want to be here. Not as long as he couldn’t have her. 

When he walked into the hotel room he first took to his sketchbook. He drew her from memory. Adding small details such as the blemishes on her face, the freckles which sprinkled over her nose. 

He packed his suitcase, leaving the sketchbook out, knowing after his shower he would pick his pencil up again. He didn’t expect her to walk into the hotel room when he was showering. 

He also didn’t expect her to be holding his sketchbook when he walked out of the bathroom. 

“What’s this?”

“I told you, my sketchbook.”

“But why is it full of drawings of me and why is your suitcase packed. Where are you going Dima?”

He decided to avoid the first question. 

“I don’t know, but somewhere, I don’t want to be in the same city as the girl I love if I can’t have her and she doesn’t love me back.”

“Dima I-“

“You don't have to say anything,” he walked over and took the sketchbook from her hand. She was so beautiful and he wanted to kiss her. “Goodbye, Anastasia.”

The words hurt. He went to turn away but before he could he felt her pulling him down and pressing her lips against his. He wrapped his arms around her frame pulling her in as tight as he could, not wanting their lips to part. Taking in the softness of her lips.

He only pulled away because his lungs were crying for air. 

“Good job she loves you back now isn’t it,” she giggled slightly, stealing the sketchbook off of him as she gazed into his eyes to distract him. “You didn’t answer one of my questions.”

“I know.”

“There’s only drawings of Petersburg and me in here, why?”

“I only draw the most beautiful things I see. I only draw what I love.”


End file.
